Take Me to the Finish Line
by winterschild
Summary: One Shot: Piccolo battles one on one with Gohan after the Cell saga and comes to some daunting realisations about his place in the world.


**Take me to the finish line**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon ball Z or any of its contents and characters**

The rain was relentless, striking him with a force he wasn't used to. It was actually making breathing in hard; the air being whipped from him by the wind. Being beaten down by the weather didn't't suit him but he wasn't in any condition to fight it. Warmth snaked down from behind his ear and he immediately recognised the dull ache of being hit in the head. It would hurt later, really hurt.

Things had gotten out of hand and now he stood, soaked through, wishing his wounds would clot. The blood was becoming cold against his skin and he had to resist shivering. It irked him beyond reason that he was the injured party in this particular situation and if he squinted, he could just about see the man standing before him in the distance. The clouds were dark above him and he cursed the sun's inability to penetrate through the stormy barrier, he needed to see. Blinking the water from his eyes he rubbed one hand over his face, frowning at how rough the cuts were making his fingers. He strained to hear through the loud smack of raindrops hitting the ground but his sensitive ears only focused on the background noise he was trying to ignore.

The golden hair of his opposition wavered in the harsh breeze, taunting him. He again tried to shake the rain from his eyes, growing exasperated with his efforts. Hi gi was torn and his skin with it, his purple blood smeared against green in distinct contrast. He had been in battle before, he had lost before, he had even died before. But the exhausted trembling that had overcome his body embodied a whole new world of hurt. His energy had depleted and he could feel himself moving with the wind as it fought with his frame. The unfamiliar sting of feeling like he was losing something important to him was growing like a weed in his chest and he clenched his fists.

He knew what was happening before he had time to react and in a moment he was staring into the hazy hills that stretched into the horizon, not his opponent. The tickling sensation of power made his nose burn and with an indignant grunt he moved, scarcely avoiding the blow that was meaning to collide with his side. He flipped forward, ignoring the groan of his muscles which were now pooled with acid. As his legs bent to land he closed his eyes, if he focused he could hear the pulse of the other fighter. It moved underneath him like a beacon, thankfully beating fast enough to give him a round about indication of his position. As his legs bent to land he twisted painfully to the side, knowing that it would come as a surprise.

But it didn't. And before he could move away his opponent had landed a crushing blow into his belly, morphing his insides into temporary emptiness as his fist occupied the cavity. Pain whitened his senses and for a moment he wasn't aware before he landed roughly into wet soil. Mustering what he could only call his reserve of his reserves he phased out and re appeared above the other man, slamming his interlaced hands into the small of his back. He hadn't expected that, to Piccolo's relief.

He grounded himself securely, suddenly aware that he was bare foot. He didn't even remember losing his shoes. Knowing that he was breathing on borrowed time he curled his talons and waited. A blur of fabric caught his eye and the fist trying to connect with his face received a deep scratch while Piccolo's other hand grabbed his arm, swinging him to the right. He watched as his assailant dug a hole for himself in the mud and grimaced, his hearing was now doing him the favour of amplifying his own heart beat, which was thudding. His own personal drum roll. He scoffed.

It didn't take long for the young man to stand and brush the sodden earth from his clothes, sneering in a semi serious manor. Piccolo moved into his fighting stance, suddenly wondering why he was bothering. Fatigue was not to be ignored any longer and the Namek felt his eyes roll back slightly and he had to blink heavily to keep himself conscious. He watched as the warrior moved towards him, quicker than he could really keep track. He didn't even raise his arms as the first punch hit, shoving his face sideways. The air was kicked from his lungs with the second blow, a few of his ribs went with it too. A sickening crack accompanied his cough and he started to fall. Realisation felt real to him then, and as abundant as the blood he was so copiously bleeding.

He landed ungracefully. His student stood above him and inhaled sharply as he watched Piccolo fall, concern flooding his green eyes. The Namek lay still for a moment, feeling himself sink slightly in the wet soil, content to think before the shock dissipated and pain reared its ugly head.

He had lost. Really lost this time, but not to an enemy and not as a hero. He would no longer be needed on the front line, bravely facing the Earth's next aggressor. He allowed himself to drift as the rain pelted him. He had never felt to hollow, so useless. The boy he had trained was beyond his reach and it bothered him like nothing had. Sidelines, that was where he belonged now.

Gohan knelt by Piccolo and placed a hand on his chest but he slipped in the blood there. For a brief moment he thought he had gone too far and he felt his throat close up. Underneath his fingers the slow faint beat of his mentor throbbed and he exhaled loudly, smiling. Completely unaware of the thoughts plaguing Piccolo's mind.

**Let me know what you think!**


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